October 21st, 2005


My one and only art class in college. . .

Ah, my art teacher.

A conversation with singingwren reminded me that I haven't really talked about her, crazy woman that she was. Some people will think that my views on art were shaped by this amazing bitch, but really, they were simply reaffirmed.

I took beginning drawing here at Ohio State because I thought it would be fun, and I might learn how to draw something more than hideous, gelatinous space aliens. It met five days per week, for two hours per class. That was a huge dent in my schedule, actually, especially since I knew I wouldn't be able to carry all the garbage someone attending an art class needs to carry, and so needed time to get back to my dorm before and after class.

This meant that the two hour class required approximately three hours, as I couldn't scehdule around it.

But, wanting to learn how to translate my thoughts into little lines on paper, I signed up anyway, and my life became a living hell.

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My opinion of art didn't really change that summer, but damn if my opinoin of teaching didn't change. I was presented with a set of values I had never experienced before, where effort was ignored and skill was cherished above all else. I became totally disinterested in anything beyond "clarity" in my own work; while clarity is certainly not ideal in my work, it's better than some of the "skilled" work I've seen.

I still draw, doodle, and occasionally play with "artistic" things, but I don't care if anyone else likes them. . . They're for me, and they are what I always wanted: things I can just throw away.

I imagine I still have that 200-pound Italian lady lying around somewhere. I'll see if I can't dig her up.